Chapter Ten #2
His arms came around her in a tight embrace, a shocking response. She’d expected him to push her away, or to turn cold. Instead, she rested her cheek against his chest, shutting out the world for a moment in his arms. She blocked out the sounds of death and sacrifice, finding sanctuary in him.
Let him go, her mind commanded. He is not yours.
Dimly, she was aware of him taking her away, of her brother speaking. And of Ivar’s silent reproach.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for what you’ve done for us.”
“Go with them,” he commanded, guiding her toward her brothers.
“What about you?”
He cleaned and sheathed his blade, saying nothing at all. In his brown eyes, Caragh saw the promise of farewell. She guarded her heart, refusing to beg for more than he could give. For she knew already that their paths would soon part.
Her gaze met Ivar’s, and she knew that there was one way to settle the debt with Styr. With one nod, she gave the promise the Norseman wanted. She would offer herself, in return for Styr’s men. And the gleam in Ivar’s eyes revealed his satisfaction.
She tried once more to prolong this moment with Styr. “What about your arm?”
He simply reached for his padded tunic and ignored the minor wound, lifting his chainmail armor over it. “Go,” he repeated.
With one last look at him, she obeyed.
It was late afternoon by the time Styr returned to Ivar’s house. Though he’d located his ship, he lacked the men to take it back again. And he still had a score to settle with the Norseman.
As he walked past the rows of longhouses, a strange sense of danger descended upon him. Though he could see nothing out of the ordinary, he kept one hand upon his battleaxe. His eyes moved over each of the people, though he tried to dispel the suspicions.
He saw a woman wearing the Norse garb of his homeland, and a trace of homesickness caught him. Already he missed the snow-capped mountains and the dark blue fjords that spanned between them. He half-wondered if he would ever go home. And whether Elena would be with him.
He tried to envision his wife’s face...but instead, he kept thinking of Caragh. She had thrown herself into his arms, repeating her gratitude to him. And like a fool, he’d held her.
Gods, but he was weak. Like a man starved for affection, he’d stood there and gripped her slight body against his own.
It was wrong, in the very deepest sense.
And were it not for his men and her brother Brendan, he would stay far away from the house of Ivar Nikolasson.
Only temptation awaited him within these walls.
He needed to find Elena and mend his broken marriage. Perhaps the distance over the past sennight would make her fly into his embrace, the way Caragh had done.
But he couldn’t imagine it. Elena was cool toward him, not at all affectionate. If he found her, she would be grateful. She might even smile. But he couldn’t fool himself into thinking she would want his touch.
Styr let out a breath of air, and walked to the door of Ivar’s house. He entered and saw half a dozen of his men waiting. Though he’d promised to free them earlier, when Caragh’s brother had been found, he’d been unable to keep that vow.
That would change today. “Gather any of your belongings. We leave this night,” he said to Onund. Though he wasn’t certain how he would coerce Ivar into agreeing to it, there had to be something he could do.
But Onund only bowed in agreement. “We have been granted our freedom already. Because of her.” He nodded towards a table at the far end of the room.
Several female slaves were lined up before Caragh, holding lengths of silk and golden armbands. Gifts from Ivar, no doubt.
A tightness rose up in his chest at the sight of her.
She wore a gown he’d never seen before, a deep green that rivalled the hills surrounding Hordafylke.
The slaves had bound back her brown hair in braids, leaving some to fall across her shoulders.
Upon her fingers, she wore silver rings and they had pierced her ears to wear more jewelry.
When she lifted her eyes to his, there was nothing but sadness within them. She knew, as he did, that soon enough he’d never lay eyes on her again. By wearing Ivar’s offerings, she had given her unspoken agreement to the man’s courtship.
Styr knew why his men were now freed and anger prickled his scalp, at the thought of the price she must have paid. Striding across the room, he came to stand before them. To Caragh, he spoke only one word. “Why?”
“Because it’s the only way I can repay you for saving Brendan.”
“By giving yourself to this man? What did you promise him? One night in your bed for each of them?”
She paled at the accusation, but stood tall before him. Ivar crossed the room, already reaching for Styr. “I should cut out your tongue for speaking words such as those.”
Styr caught Ivar before he could strike, holding him back. Yet, the man held fast with a strength that rivaled his own.
“Stop,” Caragh said quietly. “Ivar, let him go.”
“She’s staying with me, Hardrata. But you won’t stay the night under my roof.”
“I wouldn’t want to.” But he released the man and stepped back. Caragh lifted her hands, stepping between them. To Ivar, she said, “I need a moment to speak with him alone. Please.”
Though Nikolasson looked as if he’d rather strangle him than let him have any time with Caragh, he relented to her plea. As if to soothe him, she added to Ivar, “He is leaving with my brothers.”
Caragh walked to the farthest end of the longhouse, and with every step, the silver jingled as if she wore bells.
When they were alone, she folded her hands before her.
“You have your men now. And my brothers will accompany you on your search. Since you saved Brendan’s life, they owe you that debt. ”
“Do they know about Elena?”
She shook her head. “I should have told them. But I’ll leave that to you.” There was uncertainty in her voice, as if she held a thousand regrets.
“Your brothers won’t allow you to stay here alone,” Styr insisted. “And neither will I.”
Her face held regret, mingled with a sad acceptance. “I’ve made my decision, Styr. And right now, I know you want to find your wife and go back to her.”
It wasn’t the truth any more. Instead, he was fully aware of the sacrifices Caragh was making for him. He drank in the sight of her, of the brown hair the color of polished wood. And those blue-violet eyes looking upon him, as if she wanted so much more.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe at all. Inwardly, he admitted the truth to himself—that he would miss Caragh. That he welcomed the warmth of her embrace and would savor the memory of each moment in her presence.
His thoughts were on unstable ground, and he knew better than to voice the words rising up.
“I’ll miss you,” she admitted. Before he could answer, she fled his presence, returning to her brothers.
His gaze followed her, and he saw Brendan seated near Ronan and Terence.
Seeing the young man was enough to remind him of his purpose.
He needed to question Brendan, to understand what had happened on board the ship before they were taken by the Danes.
He welcomed the familiar anger, needing it to push away thoughts of Caragh he didn’t want to face.
The young man owed him restitution for putting Elena in danger. By Odin’s bones, he would get the truth.
He crossed the room, shadowing Caragh until he came to stand before Brendan. As soon as the young man caught sight of him, all the blood drained from his face.
Styr seized him by the throat and shoved him against the wall. Beneath his breath, he growled, “You have much to answer for.” He pressed against the young man’s windpipe, making it clear how easy it would be to kill him.
Within seconds, Ronan and Terence were dragging him back, and Caragh stood between them. “Styr, no,” she pleaded, as if he were a wild beast, poised to strike.
With all of his strength, Styr shoved back her brothers, unsheathing the blade at his waist and pressing it to Brendan’s throat. “You owe me the truth.”
“Please,” the young man beseeched him.
He lowered his voice to a whisper only Brendan could hear. “Was this what you did to Elena?” he demanded, drawing blood. “Did she beg you for mercy, the way you’re begging me now?”
A hand touched his shoulder, and Caragh moved before him. “Let him go, Styr. He will tell you everything he knows.”
When he released Brendan, the young man’s hands were shaking. He sank back down on the bench, struggling to draw breath.
Out of the corner of his eye, Styr spied movement, and he spun, dodging Terence’s fist before it could clip him across the jaw.
Before any of them could intervene, he cut them off.
“You will do nothing to hinder my questions. I could have let your brother die today.” He stared hard into Terence’s eyes.
“He may be your blood, but he is to blame for the suffering of my people.”
“You may question him,” Ronan interrupted, coming to stand by his brother, “but you cannot touch him. He’s already hurt, and—”
“You will answer all of my questions,” Styr warned Brendan, “and if I find that you have lied to me, you will suffer for every moment my kinsmen suffered.” The fury festered within him, along with frustration at what had happened because of this young man’s decisions.
“Give me your weapons before you question him,” Terence ordered.
Styr handed over the battleaxe and the blade, but his mouth tightened into a line. “I need no weapons to kill him.” He wanted Brendan to be afraid, to understand that he had to give every truth.
The young man gave a nod, sitting down once more, as if he didn’t trust himself to stand.